Loyalty
by WhimsicalShmoo
Summary: "Love is friendship that has caught fire. It is quiet understanding, mutual confidence, sharing and forgiving. It is loyalty through good and bad times. It settles for less than perfection and makes allowances for human weaknesses." 0605 drabbles
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

Strictly speaking, the experimental subjects at Grigori were never allowed to see each other. However, by no means were measures taken to prevent them from sharing the occasional passing glance.

#06 is tested more often than the other two in his project. He is more cooperative, for whatever reason. The researchers could not care less for the _why_.

And so it is the other two that tend to watch him pass by. Out of his cage, but escorted: still in captivity.

#05 sees #06, _notices_ him. He becomes a fixture in #05's life, an observation, a reserved area, a part of him. Does #06 notice?

Days pass, weeks pass, months and years. And then it happens. It starts as a day like any other, until the end of it is nearing. He hears commotion before he sees the redhead, walking at an oddly leisurely pace to stand before his cell. Unattended, unrushed, unbound.

"I'm #06," he greets, and his voice is so warm, so full, for one who has had so much taken from him.

At first, the dark haired boy does not respond, waiting to wake up from this strangely real dream. And then he figures he may as well go along with it. It is an interesting dream, such a change from the forced monotony that is life.

"#05," he returns, his voice sounding so entirely foreign, even to his own ears. When did he last speak? He cannot remember, not at all.

A short pause stretches between them, but this is no time for such things.

"Let's go," one of them says. And the other follows.


	2. Love

**Love**

#05 needed #06. Junas needed Amagi Miroku.

He liked to think it was mutual, that Miroku needed just as he did, needed air, needed water, _needed him_. But Miroku never needed: he wanted. Wanted freedom, wanted equality, wanted revenge, wanted power. Wanted, but did not _need_.

Junas needed. He needed Miroku, needed to see his face, his smile, the way his hair fell against his skin, the way his lips moved when talking, always with that ghost of a smile. Want would imply lack of imperative, lack of necessity. And that was just what Miroku was to Junas: imperative and necessary to the utmost extent.

Junas wished he had a word for this. _Friends_, Miroku had named the two of them, shortly after the Escape. _Friends. _Made of fire, made of fiends, made of _ends. _Were they?

There was another word, one he had only heard in passing, on the streets. Not from Miroku. He had been hesitant to bring it up, hesitant to tell Miroku something, to share something with him for the first time in memory.

_Love. _Silly teenage girls with stupid teenage boys. Old couples, hand in hand. Husband to wife, mother to child. Was this a better fit, a better match for the two of them?

Junas would wait. Wait for the understanding to come, wait for Miroku to bring it up, take initiative, as Miroku always did.

And Junas would follow that initiative, accept it. As he always did.


	3. Break Away

**Break Away**

Rebelling is always deemed as a struggle, a hardship, something arduous and time-consuming that requires great resources and determination. Miroku doesn't agree with this concept, doesn't agree at all.

Leaving Grigori's was easy. So incredibly, laughably, _easy_. A few lies, a few moments, a few deaths, a few steps. In the space of a night, it had occurred, flawlessly, seamlessly. _Easily_.

Staying had been the difficult part. Forcing himself to believe their lies, to choke them down as he choked down food gone stale and sour. Telling himself that this was all limited, that it would be over soon, that the more cooperative he was, the sooner it would end.

Such lies, such bold-faced _lies_. Why hadn't he seen them for what they were, right at the start?

Had he? Had he seen through them, and merely deluded himself into believing them, wanting to believe them out of hope he would be released, someday, properly, that he wouldn't have to rebel?

Or had he truly been so gullible, so revoltingly naive? Taking their lies for truths, swallowing them like water—so _easily_, so willingly—never suspecting it to be poisoned.

But poisoned it was. Whether he had learned that in time, whether he had secretly known it from the start, their intentions had been false, untrue, counterfeit, _phony_. Ultimately he had realized that, and he could not stand for that realization. And so began the plan, and so progressed the escape. Simply, easily, _pathetically _so.

How did they maintain him all those years?

Miroku knows how to work people, how to manipulate them. How ironic that he would be so effortlessly played himself. The thought sickens him. Gullibility is stupidity, is senselessness, is _weakness_. The possibility that such a flaw could exist within him makes something twist nauseatingly. It lurks, an idea he cannot send away completely, cannot shatter, cannot escape, can only attempt to ignore.

Even now that he is away from Grigori's, years and years away, it is not entirely erased. The memory of what they did to him, of what they said to him—of _them_—lives on, buried as deep as he can manage, and yet, not deep enough.

Severance is hardly ever complete. How truly Miroku wishes it were otherwise.


	4. Gray

**Gray**

Gray, gray, gray. The world is full of grays, all shades, all uses, all types. Cars, pavement, sidewalks, signs, buildings. Even the sky has a nasty habit of turning such a drab color now and again.

Junas had never remembered the outside world to contain so much. He _knew_, he supposed. Somewhere, he did.

Had he glorified it, thought the colors brighter in the outside world, more diverse? Encoded his memories in such vibrancy that he forgot the gray? Hardly likely. Why should his memories be so rose-colored, so _colored_. They are not particularly touching, not particularly pleasant, not a part of his heart, not exactly happy, light, joyful. Only in comparison to Grigori's. How much does that say?

Grigori's was a prison. All gray, so many shades. The black too worn to be black, the white too sullied to be white. Everything fell in the spectrum. His hair was gray, his hands were gray, his clothes. Different shades, yes, but gray nonetheless.

And yet, there was color. Granted, it wasn't a part of Grigori's, but it was still there.

There was a redhead.

_Red_. Such a vivid color, full of life. Red like the heart, red like blood, red like fire.

The color captivated Junas, caught his attention like a neon sign, and drew him in. A single burst of _red_ in a sea of murky gray.

Outside, there are other colors. Blue sky, green grass, flowers, billboards, lights. So many different shades to pay attention to, to look at, to follow. But the red is _familiar_, comforting, safe, constant. Junas doesn't even think of straying. Not at first, perhaps never. It isn't even a possibility, not even a half-formed concept.

No matter how bright and vivid, to him, all the other colors are gray. The dullest of gray, in comparison.


	5. Under the Rain

**Under the Rain**

Junas is halfway to their apartment when he sees him, standing outside of a shop under an umbrella. On closer inspection, the shop proves to be a café, the warm lights easing out through the glass windows, softening the night if only a little. Rain patters all around them, swift and hard. Through it, Junas cannot make out the other's expression.

Curling in on himself, clutching his bag closer, trying to take up the least space possible, provide the least surface area for the rain to soak, he picks up his speed a little. Cars are rushing by, there is a whole slew of people. And yet, Junas has eyes for only one.

It takes but moments for the other to spot him, glance up and towards him. _Smile_. Despite the freezing rain, despite the fact he is soaked skin to bone, Junas feels suddenly light and warm. Scarcely bothering to check for traffic, he hurries across the street, not caring that his boots slosh through deep puddles, splashing up onto his pant legs and seeping into his footwear. Everything is wet, anyway: _wet, wet, wet._

"Hello," Miroku greets from under his umbrella, sipping something. Protected from the elements as he is, his effortlessly crisp attire is a sharp contrast to Junas's soaked disorder.

Self-consciously, Junas leans against the window next to Miroku, in the rain. "Hey."

Miroku is looking at him curiously, one eyebrow half raised as he continues sipping, and then he is gazing out into the street at the blurred lights, the puddles pinpricked in a thousand different places by raindrops. It's at once a gloomy and enchanting sight.

'Why are you here?' Junas wants to ask, but that's too rude, too intrusive, too misguiding and harsh. He's glad Miroku is here, whatever the reason. Briefly he considers that the other may have come to wait for him, but that can't be true. It's presumptuous to think that Miroku would come all the way out here, just for him.

Instead, silence lapses between the two, punctuated by the dribble of countless drops on water, by splashes of booted feet, by muted voices, by tires rolling along, indifferent to the elements. Miroku continues sipping until he has to tilt the cup up, finishing the dregs. And then he places it on the window sill, leaves it there. Finished.

"Ready to go?" Miroku says, more of a statement than a question, though Junas feels inclined to answer anyway. He nods, following behind Miroku. In the rain.

It is only after a block or so that Miroku turns around and frowns slightly, tiny wrinkles of consternation creasing his forehead.

"What are you doing?"

Junas opens his mouth to respond, tries to string together a coherent sentence, but his efforts are in vain. A hand on his wrist tugs him forward, under the fabric ceiling, into the bubble of protection, into the warmth. He is standing so close to Miroku that his soaked clothes press against the other's dry ones as they walk, occasionally brushing against each other. Junas wants to apologize, for getting Miroku wet, for causing him trouble. But he can't find the right words to do so, the right wording.

"Thank you," he says instead, mumbled, barely audible over the rain and ambiance.

But Miroku hears, hears and turns to him, with that familiar smile that Junas loves so much.

"For what?" he asks, hand on the handle, other hand in his pocket, right side damp from brushing against Junas.

They walk home in comfortable silence, Miroku providing a barrier between Junas and the busy, sodden street.


	6. Rated

**Rated**

The Star Commanders are numbered, evaluated, placed on a scale of comparison. It both assures and distresses Junas. It's a straight forward system, simple: 1, 2, 3. An objective representation of skill, ability, _power_. Mostly.

Two is near the top, very, very near. Above all but one. Important. Yet, it is still second to one, to _one_, to someone, something. And it is that _one_ that concerns Junas. He sees Miroku talking to him, smiling at him. Wryly, more often a smirk than a true smile, but the traces are there. Why is Junas _second_?

Miroku explained it, assured him. Junas is not a venturer, not one to _start_; they both know this. He is a right-hand man, an infallible back-up. Someone to depend on, but not someone who takes charge, takes action, leads, _inspires_.

They both know this, they both agree.

And Junas doesn't mind being second, doesn't mind being second _to Miroku_. It is being second to _one_ that he takes issue with, that he finds unnerving. He doesn't want to be a right-hand to Grana, he _isn't_ Grana's right-hand. He's Miroku's right-hand, has been since they escaped, has been since time mattered.

But Miroku doesn't need two right-hands, doesn't need _two_. What is Grana? Grana is first to Miroku, _his_ second, his right-hand. That's what second in command is, after all. But where does that leave Junas? His left-hand, working in the shadows? Still important, but still lesser, inevitably so. Miroku is right-handed, as are most people.

Junas feels sick. He's second, second as he should be, above all others but one. The one is Grana, though, not Miroku. He's taking a place that shouldn't exist, sitting in a seat, a space, that _shouldn't be_.

"It doesn't mean anything," Miroku had placated him. "You just aren't a _leader_."

Junas is a leader. He can give orders, give commands. Organize militarily, achieve an objective. He is in charge of Scourge, after all. But he isn't a visionary, not a 'leader' like Miroku. Like Grana? He doesn't venture, not on his own, for his own.

Was that a shortcoming? Junas always thought it had been okay, had made them compatible, had been preferred. There can't be two leaders, after all. One has to follow the other. And follow Junas had, Junas does, so faithfully. Is that a fault? Does Miroku want a _leader_?

Junas likes to know how things are. He likes to know the truth, see the picture, _know_. But he likes the truth to be the truth. He doesn't want lies, half-truths, complexities. Not from Miroku.

Junas trusts Miroku, trusts him to tell him what is true and false, trusts him to tell him what he needs to know.

What Junas doesn't know, doesn't want to trust, doesn't want to believe, is these rankings. Miroku says not to worry, laughs at him, brushes it off. Miroku implies that they are of little significance. And so, Junas should take that implication, _trust it_. Believe it, as he always believes Miroku. As he should. Miroku also uses his left hand, Junas knows, more so than the average right-hander.

But, for some reason, suspicion creeps in the back of his mind. The thought that Miroku doesn't always tell the truth, doesn't always tell him what he _needs_ to know.

Junas wishes he could believe otherwise.


	7. Light

**Light**

In a cell, prisoners look for light. Through cracks, barred windows, half-open doorways, they search for light.

Light is hope, wishes, dreams, good, clean, safe, _happy_.

#05 did not bother to look for light, not after a few weeks in the Cell. He lost hope, had no wishes, could not fathom dreams, felt anything but good, clean, safe, or _happy_. Resignation was what he felt. Anger, annoyance, _fear_…it all dulled under a lack of care.

Nihilistic. Lost, and no longer looking for a path.

And then he had seen a Light, his Light. A boy with red hair, and a _smile_. A smile in such a place, a dark place, _dark, dark, dark_. Enlightening.

Junas looked up, looked forward, at something, at someone. Junas _cared_, and hoped and wished and dreamed and almost felt good and clean and safe and _happy_, despite everything.

Junas was not one to look, not one to search, not one to care. But he had been handed a Light. And now he could not help but do all three, if only to catch another glimpse.


	8. Dark

**Dark**

When free, humans hide from the dark. In cracks, in corners, behind doors, they try and avoid it.

Darkness is loss, despair, hopelessness, bad, dirty, danger, _sad_.

#05 did not bother to look for darkness, not after a few weeks in Freedom. He feared loss, was sick of despair, now had hope, and had never felt less bad, dirty, in danger, or _sad_. Elation was what he felt. Worry, anxiety, _fear_…it was all brushed aside for the moment by delight, relief, excitement.

Optimism. Guided, on a path. To where, he did not know, but did it really matter at this point? He had a Light, _his_ Light. What more did he need?

But then he had started seeing the Dark, _his _Dark. A man with red hair, lacking his _smile_. Lacking a smile in such a place, a light place, _light, light, light_. Changing.

Junas looked away, looked back, at nothing, at no one. Junas _cared_, and felt lost and full of despair and hopelessness, suddenly more bad and dirty and in danger and _sad_ than he ever had back at Grigori's, despite everything.

Junas was not one to ignore, not one to hide, not one to care. But he had been ambushed by Dark, Darkness in the last place he would have ever expected to find it. In his Light. And now he could not help but do all three, if only to avoid another glimpse.


End file.
